Tides of Blood
by LockedIn221B
Summary: One dark night, John is alone and Sherlock's absence becomes too much. Warning: Suicide


The emptiness of the flat had began to close in on him. The constant ticking of the clock was his only companion in the room. The quiet sound echoed down the corridors and through the dark flat. The curtains were drawn to act as a filter and stop the light from the street lamps shining in. Every light in the flat was off and the darkness invaded the space. The man sat slouched in his old arm chair glaring at the seat opposite him that had once belonged to a genius.

At first, he had coped because he felt like he had to. It was expected of him. He had struggled through the dull and lifeless days in a hard battle. He did it for those around him that cared for him but one by one those people began to lose there significance. They became a face who occasionally visited. They meant nothing to the doctor now.

The weary doctor's eyes fluttered open and close as the alcohol poisoned his fragile system. His breathing was slow and his chest slowly rose and fell in a pathetic attempt at survival. His tongue slowly ran over his dry lips as he wobbled on the verge of unconsciousness. He swallowed and tried to ignore the tears that slowly glided down his thin cheeks. The alcohol was hurting him. It was making his stomach churn and ache but he didn't notice the pain. It simply blended in with the pain of his daily struggle. A pain that he had accepted as standard.

He squeezed his hand into a weak fist as his vision blurred. The salty tears were streaking down his face as the pain over flowed.

It was then that he remembered something. Something that he had considered many times. He shakily stood and took a weak step towards the kitchen. He had to stop and lean against the wall as the pain became too much. His face twisted into a painful scowl. He steeled himself and stepped forward. The sharp pain made the weary man cry out and grasp his stomach. He rapidly blinked and brushed away a tear with a shaking hand.

He stepped again and clenched his teeth as a gasp attempted to escape. Another painful step then another until he collapsed against the experiment-free kitchen table with a groan. His stomach churned again at the sudden movement and the doctor heaved, trying to bring up the alcohol that was poisoning his body. The man leant against the table as he tried to catch his breath. He had his eyes clenched shut as the pain briefly disabled him. He swallowed and his dry throat burnt.

The doctor pushed himself up onto his unsteady feet and continued determinedly toward the kitchen counter. He collapsed against the cabinets and his hands smashed into the empty whiskey and vodka bottles that sat there. The doctor hissed as the glass cut into the flesh on his fingers. Blood began to rise in the deep cut but the doctor was oblivious.

He began to scramble at the drawer. His weak bloodied fingers fought to open the drawer. He finally hauled it open and reached around inside. He ignored the pain of knives slicing through his pale skin. It took the man, in his weakened state, a while to retrieve what he wanted but eventually he pulled the blade out.

The large knife shone in the weak light that broke through the curtains. The doctor studied it. He ran a finger along the blade and winced as it broke the skin. This will do, He thought to himself.

The doctor let the knife hang limp in his hand as he struggled towards the bedroom that once belonged to his best friend. His legs shook and he stumbled along the short corridor until he reached the room. The weak doctor gently pushed at the door and it swang open. Dust from the floor flew into the air and the smell of must hit the man. The undisturbed room was silent and still, not too dissimilar to the rest of the flat. Every surface had a layer of dust. The doctor slowly glanced around at the books and experiments which remained scattered around the room like they were waiting for their owner to return to them.

The man made his way forward and sat gently on the cold bed. The covers were stayed unmade on the bed just as the genius had once left them.

John's hands shook as he gazed down at the knife. He turned it in his hand as he remembered his missing friend. He lifted the knife and gently laid the tip against his wrist.

"You said, you and me against the rest of the world." The doctor's voice shook as much as his hands. He began to apply a slight pressure and the very tip of the knife burried itself into the flesh. The man paid little attention to the tears that were dripping onto his arm. "You said that I was your only friend." The doctor dragged the blade through the skin and blood quickly pooled to the surface. "I could have helped you." He pushed it deeper and the pain shot up his arm. The doctor pulled it further along his wrist. The crimson tide of blood began to rapidly drip down his arm and stain the cream bed sheets. "I would have wanted to help you." A tear fell into the deep cut on the wrist and the doctor gasped as the salt stinged the flesh and mixed in with the blood. "Why?" He gasped. The knife was plunged deeper and the doctor cut the skin further. Even the amount of alcohol in his body couldn't dull the pain.

The blood ran down his arm in a constant river of red. The red pooled onto the sheets staining it a bright red. He pressed harder as the blade ripped further through the doctor gasped as the flow of blood got faster. A sharp pain in his head made him wince.

Then everything went black.

The flat was empty and the only sound that echoed the dark halls was the constant ticking of the clock on the mantle. Darkness invaded the flat and the curtains were drawn. And there was silence from the inhabitant of 221B.


End file.
